


Quiet

by 4theloveoftea



Series: The Game. [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Oral
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-15
Updated: 2012-06-15
Packaged: 2017-11-07 20:30:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/435129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/4theloveoftea/pseuds/4theloveoftea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock play a little game and annoy Mycroft as they have some fun in the Diogenes club (after hours).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quiet

The room smells old - of varnished wood and creaky, lined leather. A grand marble fireplace stands proud as centrepiece, and ornate craftsmanship lines the walls. John notices none of this. 

His world has condensed down to three things: breathing (in, out, in, out - it's so easy to forget), not coming too soon and that fucking glorious mouth currently teasing it's way down. Down John's shirt, stopping at each button to grab at them with teeth - a slip away but not undone.

Sherlock reaches the point where shirt tucks below belt, and he growls a little with impatience. He rips it up and free from the waistband to reveal a strip of John (compact, strong, his). Resting his mouth gently on that soft expanse of skin, he leaves a tender kiss - once, quickly, before looking up for his prize. He knows what's coming and he wants to observe. It takes one moment (Sherlock mourns all the empty, wasted moments when he could be doing this a million times over) and Sherlock tugs and nips the soft tissue at John's navel. He drags it out slowly, to afford the time to drink in the sight above.

John is no longer in control of breathing. He no longer screws his face up to blank out the view. His eyes are open now - hooded and focused entirely on that matching set down in his lap, almost feline now in their intense observation. The tug, the bite of teeth and John's vocal chords act all on their own. His legs, previously right angled knees and splayed to allow access are now unstable as they slide flat and John slumps further in the grey chair, pushing Sherlock closer yet further away. Sherlock is not deterred, he just changes course. His nose - that sharp, profile nose latches below the hem of John's checked shirt and slowly pulls upwards (John tries not to grab that curly ebony, to quicken the pace, to latch to some reality, but he fails quite spectacularly), lapping at the glorious flesh as it's revealed. Everyone else would call it worship. In this instance, everyone else is correct.

John is a patient man, gods, he has to be to live with Sherlock, to run a riot around london with his clues and his labs and his super villains. To love this man, this detective, this many faceted human being is much the same. But god, does he ever. John doesn't think he'd quite function properly without him near. Yes, it's dependance (and John's none too fond of that, war has made him a solitary man) but it's a dependance that awakes him, makes him feel more than a half - more than a whole. So with all this in mind, he allows this night, this one night for Sherlock. He tries not to think of the reasons why they're here, right in the lion's den of the Diogenes room of quiet. But his lover, after all, is an eccentric one and he doubts highly that this will be the last (nor is it the first) that their sexual endeavours involve some sort of gameplay or oneupmanship. Don't get him wrong, they are tender and loving and wild and rough, and this is just another side to that - a side to their characters that has to play out or else it withers and them two with it.

John's world right now is feel and lust and he's lost all patience now - he's used it up, no control - as he steadies his arms on the chair, grips tightly before hitching a heavy (dead, immobile) leg round the clothed waist below. He has purchase as he none too gently pushes heel against spine to drag Sherlock down, down, down. He's heaving and shaking and burning as he brings his leg up and rests it over Sherlock's shoulder, pulling his partner forwards - slowly - by the pressure of heel on back. Sherlock's hunched now, mouth resting in the join of thigh and groin. John can't breathe quick enough, he's dizzy, faint and disorientated as Sherlock sucks him through denim. 

The streetlights flicker outside, the wind howls down the street as it spatters rain against the window, beating a rhythm that echoes around the room. Shadows run like chaos against the mahogany panelled walls. John only wishes he could see more, he wants to see the play of shadow on light on that face, to the see the ecstasy in those eyes, but they can't risk light in here, not when light means alarms and alarms means ending this. Because this? This is too fucking good, John thinks. Actually, John doesn't think, he can't think, not now, not when Sherlock is easing his fly open with canines and bite.

John lifts up, a gap between chair and cloth, as Sherlock eases his pants and briefs down to knees. John's been hard since the moment he was pushed into the chair. Pushed with the heel of a hand and all protests silenced by a glare. It's a game but, oh my, is it glorious and John's almost weeping - he's dripping and ready and he doesn't think he'll last. Sherlock's caught up; has lost patience too as he takes John in his mouth, right in and not a choke (John has wondered where the skill was learnt but on reflection he thinks best not to ask - labs, riding crops, experiments). John's mouth opens, a silent scream, voice pitching and cracking but not given life, fingers flexing, knuckles white as the leather protests.

Sherlock kneels there, cheeks hollowing, in, out ~ the image of calm as he gazes levelly, constantly at John. John's sparking and jolting, his skin pulsates and throbs and he wants to hold back, hang on, and he thinks he can. He's almost gained control when Sherlock releases John, tongue swiping at the head as it slides from his mouth, spreads it over and down. He lays kisses, sticky and hot along the trail of hair below the navel, purposefully avoiding what John's want most, continuation and completion. It's humid, musk and all John - he can practically smell the desperation rolling off go him. 

He wants to lock him up, keep this man his and his alone, but John's too good, too important to hide away and though jealousy and Sherlock are good friends, he wants John happy. Sherlock allows himself to think it's only him and John when they're like this - like there's no one existing beyond these walls, be they on bed or floor, or couch (even the odd door).

John whimpers (he'll not admit it later, he'll say it was the leather or his foot along the wooden floor) and breaks and calls:

"Fuck, Sher . . (a gasp as Sherlock trails an elegant finger up the length, it twitches and John can feel it pulse and demand) . . lock, get on with it."

John knows he's lost but he doesn't give a fucking damn. Sherlock quirks his lip up in a smirk, knows he's victor and bows his head to claim his prize.

"Fuck!" A shout - it rings and bounds off the four walls of the previously silent room. A small light flickers to life in the corner, red, off, red, off. Alert. Alert.

Sherlock swallows him once, twice and John's gone. He grabs a handful of coal black curl and twists the other leg up to pull Sherlock closer, closer almost smothering. 

Sherlock kneels there and takes it, swallows it; his prize. John is done for, sure he's up there looking down on himself as his body jerks and slows. The detective releases John (gently, gently) swiping half heartedly at the side of his lip with his hand before deciding better of it and uses his tongue (John; mine).

"Come here, you smug git." John's voice is soft and round as his words roll into one. Sherlock moves, ever graceful, hands bracing the sides of the chair as he hovers over John.

Sherlock just continues to smirk, a playful glint in his eyes. John dislikes that, has to do something about that. So, that impatience. John grabs the back of Sherlock's neck, demanding and taking. The kiss is hot and slow, familiar and exciting and new all at once. Sherlock's fingers ghost through John's hair as their mouths part. John can see Sherlock's still hard, on closer inspection he can see his body holds a tremor that he's trying to contain. Sherlock notices the direction of his gaze, shakes his head.

"It can wait. We need to get back. Approximately 10 minutes until Mycroft comes waltzing in." John is pleased to note the slight breathless quality to Sherlock's voice, the desire held back.

Well, John thought, if there was a killer to the mood, that would be it. He's up on his feet, losing balance momentarily when he can't walk, only seconds later realising his pants are round his calves. A swipe and they're up, and he pulls Sherlock to the door. 

So John had lost the little game, had lost the bet in the room of quiet. But, fuck, had that been worth it.

"It can wait until we get home, but no longer."

"I count on it." And Sherlock grabs his coat, pulls John by the hand and exits into the London night.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was written late on friday night. I had an interview the next day and to be quite honest, I was a nervous wreck. This was my attempt at thinking of anything but the next morning! First time I've written slash and posted online! 'Be brave' I said!
> 
> Inspired by texts from and to my wonderful friend :D Because BJ Johnlock is win.


End file.
